


Lazy Day

by nirejseki



Series: Aflameverse [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychopaths, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9278054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: Mick enjoys the privileges of ownership.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the request: could i please request a smut fic set in your Aflame fic verse? I wanna read possessive behaviour coldwave sex >_

Mick is sitting in the captain’s chair, his back slouched, his legs spread, small smirk on his face. He is content.

They’re traveling in the time stream today, wrapped up in their own little bubble, sliding up and down their own little strand of timeline spaghetti, nice and safe. They’re headed to the past to stop an aberration – a nasty one, too, involving zombies in the Civil War, of all things – and Mick’s little team of heroes is planning on taking out the pirate ship carrying the virus before it ever lands. They grabbed a few high powered torpedoes from their last visit to the future that ought to look real nice when they go off, blowing the ship out of the air, like fourth of July fireworks. 

He never said they were _nice_ heroes.

It pleases Jax, anyway, to think of himself as still being a hero, and Sara is a fine right hand, now that her sister is at her side, their twin smiles broad and eyes sharp. Laurel mostly prefers Starling as her base, same as ever, but she’s happy to join them when they think they might need a legal mind to help sort through the timeline and identify key pivot points. She's a great historian, too: all that work digging through legal documents helps her work through the tomes of data Gideon has pulled from various libraries, data that helps them keep their own timeline footprint to a minimum. After they cured her, Laurel looked straight into Mick's eyes and knew what he is, right off the bat, but he makes her sister happy and he keeps her sister safe and he lets her sister kill as much as she needs to while still keeping the faith in her heroics, and right now that's enough for Laurel Lance. She won't challenge him - yet. 

Besides, Laurel and Amaya clicked so hard Mick thinks a piece of the universe might have actually snapped audibly in the process. 

Best friends from different eras, those two; with Laurel often talking avidly about advances in feminism, race theory, economics, and Amaya responding with lessons on war and spying and her own unique perspective on the issues. It's probably not wise to give Laurel such a firm ally, not when Mick knows that one day he'll probably have to put her into the ground when she finally objects to his domination of the Waverider and the timeline, but that's not his problem right now.

Those are thoughts for another day.

Today – today is a lazy day.

Mick stretches, popping the air out of a stiff joint or two, and gets up out of his chair in a casual way that fools absolutely nobody, but certainly not the crew hovering on the bridge around him: Sara, playing Tetris on the navigation station and trying to keep from sniggering; Jax, sitting beside her, feet up in the air like a king and grinning as he pages through another repair manual; Ray, texting with his hawkish girlfriend and boyfriend through time and space like a modern day Doctor Who. Ginny, of course, humming along, mistress of the ship. 

His ship. _His_ , with no other man (or AI) left alive to make a claim upon it, and repaired three dozen times over with new improvements pulled from the creative minds of his fanatically loyal crew.

Stein’s currently spending a little quality time in the brig as a little lesson on male privilege, per Laurel's request, but he, like the rest of the crew, has learned to accept his punishment with grace and to make reparations after, then put it aside – Snart’s idea of putting a whiteboard in there so the professor could work while he contemplated his wrongs was a good one. 

Speaking of Snart…

“I’m gonna take a break,” Mick announces.

“Don’t _break_ anything,” Sara quips, smirking. 

Mick smirks and heads back to his quarters, which were once Snart’s quarters. 

Snart’s sprawled out belly-down on the bed, eyes shut in satisfied repose, bare as the day he was born but for the collar that lives on his wrist. Just the way Mick likes him.

Snart still hates being naked, especially over the covers on a ship where the door can be opened from the outside, but Mick’s slowly working the dislike out of him. Mick likes to see what’s his.

He likes to see what's his sprawled out, sated and lazy, forced to take a day to relax, under strict orders not to leave his room and to wait, patient, until Mick came back to play once more. 

He goes and sits by Snart, running his thumb up Snart’s back.

Snart’s awake, he can tell, but he lies still and lets Mick do as he likes. 

Such a good boy. 

“Turn over,” Mick says, and Snart does.

That’s better.

Mick spends a good couple of minutes just looking at him. Snart’s looking much better now: he’s not so tired-looking, his muscles are strong with good old-fashioned use, his skin tone is healthy now that Mick has all the resources of time and space to use to make him eat properly. He needs it, too. 

Snart’s still broken inside, all chopped up in pieces from where Rip hurt him, but that’s okay.

Mick’s working on that. 

Mick takes Snart’s hand, the new one, the one with the collar wrapped around it – Mick removes the collar only when he’s cleaning it, keeps Snart on his knees beside him the whole time he’s doing it, makes Snart watch him as he does it, makes Snart know that he, like the collar, was something that Mick was going to keep forever – and he thumbs at the meat of Snart’s palm, working the flesh between his fingers, watching Snart’s muscles tense at the pressure before releasing the tension they’ve stored up. 

“This is mine,” he says, and watches Snart shiver a little, watching him through heavily lidded eyes. 

He works Snart's hand over, top to bottom, and puts it back down on the bed, sliding his fingers down to Snart’s wrist, the bony protrusion, the collar. He draws his palm across the collar, slow and sure, possessive to the last, and then upwards, to Snart’s forearm, the sensitive part right below the elbow, to the scars that curl over his upper arm. 

The sensitive inside of his arm. The meat of his shoulder.

“This is mine,” he says again.

Snart watches him.

Mick skates his fingers along Snart’s collarbone, feeling every time it was broken by other hands than his. He draws them down Snart’s chest, through the sparse hair there. Flicks the nipple, drawing out a short bark of involuntary laughter from Snart.

“This is mine,” he says, and Snart nods, just the barest hint of movement.

He runs his palm over Snart’s belly, pleased when the tender, vulnerable flesh shudders beneath him, likes the hint of softness that he’s managed to coax out of Len’s spare frame. Traces the ribs, watching Snart struggle not to move when confronted by his own ticklishness. 

Snart knows better than to move right now.

“This is mine,” he says, and means more than the body beneath him – means Snart’s obedience, Snart’s loyalty, Snart’s goodness, because that’s his, too. He'd never have been satisfied with just Snart's body, beautiful as it is.

Mick moves his fingers down the curve of Snart’s hip, sliding tantalizingly close to where Snart’s grown hard and wanting, and moves right by, going down Snart’s thigh, the sensitive inner portions that make Snart have to stifle a groan. 

The soft space behind the knee.

The scarring on the shin.

The curve of the ankle.

The base of the toes, the spur of the heel.

All this is Mick’s, too. 

Mick’s to break, if he wants, and Mick’s to care for, too.

Snart’s eyes haven’t shifted from Mick, not even a flicker, not even when Mick draws his fingers back up, not when Mick pushes his thighs open and thumbs his well-used hole, still a little wet from where Mick fucked him hard this morning, when he put a still-sleepy Snart on his knees against the wall and pounded into him without pity or remorse, a little pick-me-up before he got up to go get himself some coffee. Before he left Snart behind with orders not to even think of getting dressed or of getting out of bed today.

Snart’s still sore from him, and he still wants more.

He'll always want more, more of Mick, wants _everything_ Mick can give him and more, no matter what it is. 

Mick smiles.

He shifts position on the bed and repeats the process on the other leg, claiming every scar over again with his fingers, working the muscles loose, a long press on the base of his foot making Snart’s eyes flutter in pleasure even as he keeps his hips still. 

He works his way up to Snart’s other arm, until he’s touched every inch of Snart below the neck except for where Snart wants to be touched most.

Mick draws his fingers to Snart’s neck and up along the lines of muscle there, feels Snart swallow under his thumbs, his adam’s apple moving as he does. Draws his fingers higher, to Snart’s lips, where he lets them rest for a second, tracing the dry, cracked surface. Moves them up. Traces his cheeks, running them up the bone. His temples. The curves under his eyes.

Presses his thumbs lightly on Snart’s eyelids, which slide closed under the mild pressure.

He could take Snart’s eyes if he wanted. Snart would let him.

Why would he want to, when they look at him so adoringly?

He caresses Snart’s temples, working out the pressure there in slow, steady circles; presses his thumb to the wrinkle between Snart’s eyebrows until the tension is soothed there, too. Scratches his nails lightly across Snart’s scalp. 

Snart’s so loose right now, his body so relaxed, so pliant, he might almost be asleep.

He’s not.

Mick brings his hands down and wraps them around Snart’s throat, drawing them infinitesimally tighter and tighter until the skin flushes red beneath his grip. “This is mine,” he says.

Snart’s life.

Snart’s death.

Everything about the man, from head to toe, from outside in. His body, his mind, his soul.

All Mick’s.

“Yes,” Snart says, his first words aloud. “ _Yes_. Yours.”

Mick smiles, and releases Snart’s neck. 

“Touch yourself,” he orders. “Tell me what you want.”

Snart moves, free at last, and wraps a hand around himself, pumping with long, sure strokes of a man who knows he’s close, who's been dancing on the edge and finally sees hope of release. “I want you,” he says.

Mick smiles.

“I want you,” Snart continues, his eyes still half-closed, growing distant as he dreams aloud for Mick’s pleasure. His brilliant mind, bent beneath Mick’s control without fear, without coercion. Given freely, out of love. _Mick's._ “I wanna see you sitting in that captain’s chair of yours, looking around with that smug look you always get, like you know it’s all yours for the taking. And it is, everything, the whole ship, the whole timeline, all yours. I wanna have you, right there; wanna get down on my knees for you in front of all of ‘em, every last one of them, take you in my mouth. Flip my parka hood up, get it over my head, so they don’t see a damn thing, but they know what I’m doing anyway. Want them to see you get hot for me.”

“I’m always hot for you,” Mick says, and this, too, is true.

Snart’s hand moves faster. “I want you to come in my mouth,” he says. “Gonna swallow you down, just like you like it, and then I’m gonna do you up and leave you there, nice and loose and happy, all ‘cause of me, and they’re all gonna see me lick my lips, and they’re not gonna be able to look away.”

“Because you’re beautiful,” Mick says, meaning that Snart would be beautiful _because_ he is Mick’s, and he knows that that’s what Snart means, too.

“I’m gonna look her right in the eye and smirk,” Snart says, and his breathing is hard, his hips twitching up in time with the movement of his hand. “She’ll know it, most of all, out of all of ‘em.”

He means Amaya, whose admiration of Mick has perhaps been less well-hidden than it ought to be. 

Snart’s _jealous_.

That’s Mick’s, too, that fury, that crawling feeling that goes down Snart’s throat and stays there, boiling Snart’s blood. That possessive urge that starts low in the belly and radiates outwards, fills you up, until there’s nothing inside of you but feral, crazy want, the desire to have, to possess, to _keep_. 

Mick gave that to Snart, gave him that special part of him, that precious piece of pure madness, and he loves it; loves seeing it shine in Snart’s eyes, loves how Snart wants in some confused way to act, wants to grind his ostensible rival into the dust, wants to be driven by the same fury that drives Mick to harm those who have harmed Snart. He's too good for it, of course, but he wants it, loves that madness the same way he loves everything that Mick has ever given him. Just the way he learned to. 

Snart has nothing to worry about, of course. 

But Mick still likes it.

“Gonna show her,” Snart says, and he’s just on the edge. “Gonna show her you’re _mine_ –”

“I am,” Mick says, a moment's indulgence for his first and favorite, and Snart’s coming, his whole body drawing tight like a bow for a long moment before collapsing down onto the sheets, every inch of him loose.

Every inch of him Mick’s.

Just the way Mick likes him.

Mick smiles.

He leans down, idly presses his lips to Snart’s temple. “Sleep,” he says, and Snart murmurs in agreement, already halfway there, his sleepless efforts planning their next few steps over the last few days coming for their due at last, and then - once Snart's down and under and safe in his dreams - Mick gets up and he goes back out to his ship.

It’s nice, sometimes, to have a lazy day.

Mick sits in the captain’s chair. 

And smiles, content.


End file.
